Little Purple Church: Still Building Community in the Castro

If I were to craft my life’s spiritual scrapbook—a collection of words and images to share the pivotal insights, difficult passages, and moments of deeper meaning—I would reserve at least one special page for San Francisco’s Metropolitan Community Church (MCC). It was there, as a college freshman on the verge of his adult manhood, that I first learned how shared faith can salve the most tender of wounds.

Almost every Sunday during that first year of college, I would head up from Stanford to the Castro District, a mostly-gay enclave known for its rainbow flags, randy shops, and resplendent characters. Back in the late ‘80’s, the neighborhood also served as ground zero for the AIDS crisis—and the church offered a haven of respite for those in suffering. Something close to 90% of the men who attended MCC then tested positive for HIV. As a result, the spectre of Death never got too far away. Every week, it seemed, someone was either passing on to the next life or moving into hospice care in preparation for doing so.

At the same time, a resilient spirit of Life raised the roof. For the most part, those who attended had been shunned, belittled, or rejected by their home churches. They’d been told that their sexual identities—a core piece of their sense of self—were somehow shameful or sinful. In that sense, they came to church not because they felt obligated to do so. They attended because they longed for the community and longed for God. No selective misinterpretation of scripture could keep them away. In valiant resistance to that hatred and to Death’s increasing reach, they prayed with palpable joy and abandon. They sang with heart-opening love. In such light, stand-by hymns took on even greater full-throated power. Words gained weight: Farther along, we’ll know all about it. Farther along, we’ll understand why.

I always enjoyed that music and found it deeply moving, especially as a backdrop to the communion ceremony. I had grown up in a Catholic setting and so was not familiar with the practice of receiving a short blessing after taking communion. The MCC ministers and other volunteers would wrap their arms around each congregant after serving the host and offer a few words. Sometimes the prayer felt personal, other times more generic, but always felt generous. That kind of simple kindness carried profound power. Lord, I ask a blessing for this young man’s week ahead. May God walk with him in his sorrow and celebrate with him in his triumph. May he know the depth of your peace and the warmth of your love. I regularly cried in gratitude or sadness when I sat in prayer back at my seat. I felt welcomed. I felt cared for.

Given all that, I delighted in the surprise chance to revisit the church this past Sunday after I’d had brunch with my friend Chris nearby. Though I was feeling spiritually stirred from the workshop I’d recently co-led at Green Gulch Zen Center, Chris and I hadn’t planned to stop by. We were just enjoying an improvisational no-agenda stroll through the Castro when we accidentally walked onto the church’s street. (Ah, how a stretch of openness makes space for serendipity!) As we passed by, we looked at our watches and realized that the service was happening in that moment. We ducked in and tiptoed up to find spots in the balcony.

Though the AIDS crisis has largely quieted in the face of increased awareness and improved drug treatments, and the congregation no longer fills the place, the church still communicates a sincere sweetness. The small choir sings with commitment. The current ministers carry on a message of welcome. Post-service prayers attend to those in particular need. And lovely signs now sit in each of the stained-glass windows, sharing and affirming the community’s values: Be equal. Be present. Be justice. Be inclusive. Be unique. Be peace. Be proud. Be authentic. Be community. Be love.

In other words, MCC still lives and breathes as a transformative spiritual community almost 25 years later. And it does so with a clear message. When you’re left out in the cold, we will provide warm shelter. When you’re down, we’ll help lift you back up. When you sing with thanksgiving, we’ll join in with a harmony. Would that we all find such a welcoming home, whatever our histories. Would that we all find such salvation.